That I am very well aware of how privileged I am.
I am very well aware that my illness could have been far more grave.
I just wish people would understand that I did not live through the flu, I lived through something far worse.
I'll return to Melville now. Which, by the way, my computer autocorrects to "Melvin." Not like he's one of the greatest American authors of all time, or anything.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
How my inability to fry an egg reveals my deepest insecurities...
I love eggs. Breakfast lunch or dinner, I’ll eat them any time. Hard boiled, soft boiled, scrambled, poached - count me in.
I cannot, however, fry an egg. I can cook them any other way, no problem. Cooking an egg is a pretty simple process.
Frying one? For whatever reason, that eludes me. I always spray the pan - but sometimes I don’t let it heat up long enough, or I try to flip the egg to early, or I haven’t wiggled the spatula far enough under the egg and it folds over on itself or the yolk breaks. Sometimes it comes out too runny - and I don’t like runny eggs - or sometimes it comes out overcooked. This should be one of the simplest meals in the world, and I cannot get it right. I rarely bother to make one if my mother is not home and handy to rescue my lunch from whatever runny fried fate is its due.
There are lots of things I can do. I can do laundry, I can clean a house with the best of them. I’m on the dean’s list at school and I’ve never had a traffic violation or parking ticket. But every time I fail to fry that egg just right, I feel like an imposter.
Twenty one years old, Judith, and you’re not yet grown up. All your friends are living out of their parents houses, taking care of themselves. Even your little sister has her own place! And you can’t even fry a silly little egg.
A short conversation with some in my acquaintance and you’ll get the impression that they share this sentiment, though for different reasons. I have not left home, I have not partied, I have not pulled an all-nighter, I have not had a boyfriend, I have not done all of the college-y things you’re “supposed” to do - and to them, I have not had adequate life experience to merit the title of “grown up.”
At twenty one, I doubt anyone is fully “grown up,” but responsible, perhaps, mature, certainly, they can be.
I may not be able to fry an egg, but I have life experience. Not all paths to “grown-up” dom are the same; how could they be? I - a straight A, five Advanced Placement classes, top band in school, academic nerd - was forced to drop out of high school and finish up my education on independent study - in standard level classes. I did not attend prom or graduation; does missing out on those “essential” life experiences count as its own form of experience? I have felt and dealt with loneliness, living an entire year house bound - bed bound, in fact. I, an avid reader, had to give up books, in favor of the overwhelming migraines that would overtake me.
I fought for my life. Maybe not a matter of death, but life as a matter of being able to go out and live - instead of simply sitting around, barely able to think, doing nothing more than existing. I had to summon whatever strength I had - and it certainly was not physical, and not much mental strength either - to endure endless doctors trips, to keep trying new medications. I went to yoga and physical therapy and even though I could barely walk, I began to exercise, because I was told it might help me. I had to find, somewhere in me, a determination to get better - despite the chances that I may never have been well enough to attend college, never have been well enough to have any social contact outside of my family, and the depressing statistics that say I will live with my disease for the rest of my life, and relapse is inevitable.
So maybe I cannot fry an egg, but I have life experience. Maybe I don’t drink very often (rarely, actually) and maybe I don’t like to party, or stay out all night, or waste money on clothes and movies and things like that; but in the two years I spent recovering from rock bottom, one year of which I spent hardly able to move, I grew up, and I realized that those things are not the hallmarks of a grown up, but simply the hallmarks of a newly “free” college kid who thinks that, because they are free to make those choices, they are grown up.
I have to choose how I spend what precious energy I have. I have to choose what is most important - and every time, I end up choosing responsibility, because it means that I will have energy tomorrow, that I will be able to continue to fight my disease. Freedom is not what being grown up is all about - maturity and responsibility is.
I accept that I may not be completely mature, but I think I’m fairly responsible. If I were physically well enough to move out of my parents house right now - to do all of my own cooking and cleaning, on top of school and other responsibilities - I could, mentally and emotionally, handle it. I would make good choices.
I cannot, however, fry an egg. I can cook them any other way, no problem. Cooking an egg is a pretty simple process.
Frying one? For whatever reason, that eludes me. I always spray the pan - but sometimes I don’t let it heat up long enough, or I try to flip the egg to early, or I haven’t wiggled the spatula far enough under the egg and it folds over on itself or the yolk breaks. Sometimes it comes out too runny - and I don’t like runny eggs - or sometimes it comes out overcooked. This should be one of the simplest meals in the world, and I cannot get it right. I rarely bother to make one if my mother is not home and handy to rescue my lunch from whatever runny fried fate is its due.
There are lots of things I can do. I can do laundry, I can clean a house with the best of them. I’m on the dean’s list at school and I’ve never had a traffic violation or parking ticket. But every time I fail to fry that egg just right, I feel like an imposter.
Twenty one years old, Judith, and you’re not yet grown up. All your friends are living out of their parents houses, taking care of themselves. Even your little sister has her own place! And you can’t even fry a silly little egg.
A short conversation with some in my acquaintance and you’ll get the impression that they share this sentiment, though for different reasons. I have not left home, I have not partied, I have not pulled an all-nighter, I have not had a boyfriend, I have not done all of the college-y things you’re “supposed” to do - and to them, I have not had adequate life experience to merit the title of “grown up.”
At twenty one, I doubt anyone is fully “grown up,” but responsible, perhaps, mature, certainly, they can be.
I may not be able to fry an egg, but I have life experience. Not all paths to “grown-up” dom are the same; how could they be? I - a straight A, five Advanced Placement classes, top band in school, academic nerd - was forced to drop out of high school and finish up my education on independent study - in standard level classes. I did not attend prom or graduation; does missing out on those “essential” life experiences count as its own form of experience? I have felt and dealt with loneliness, living an entire year house bound - bed bound, in fact. I, an avid reader, had to give up books, in favor of the overwhelming migraines that would overtake me.
I fought for my life. Maybe not a matter of death, but life as a matter of being able to go out and live - instead of simply sitting around, barely able to think, doing nothing more than existing. I had to summon whatever strength I had - and it certainly was not physical, and not much mental strength either - to endure endless doctors trips, to keep trying new medications. I went to yoga and physical therapy and even though I could barely walk, I began to exercise, because I was told it might help me. I had to find, somewhere in me, a determination to get better - despite the chances that I may never have been well enough to attend college, never have been well enough to have any social contact outside of my family, and the depressing statistics that say I will live with my disease for the rest of my life, and relapse is inevitable.
So maybe I cannot fry an egg, but I have life experience. Maybe I don’t drink very often (rarely, actually) and maybe I don’t like to party, or stay out all night, or waste money on clothes and movies and things like that; but in the two years I spent recovering from rock bottom, one year of which I spent hardly able to move, I grew up, and I realized that those things are not the hallmarks of a grown up, but simply the hallmarks of a newly “free” college kid who thinks that, because they are free to make those choices, they are grown up.
I have to choose how I spend what precious energy I have. I have to choose what is most important - and every time, I end up choosing responsibility, because it means that I will have energy tomorrow, that I will be able to continue to fight my disease. Freedom is not what being grown up is all about - maturity and responsibility is.
I accept that I may not be completely mature, but I think I’m fairly responsible. If I were physically well enough to move out of my parents house right now - to do all of my own cooking and cleaning, on top of school and other responsibilities - I could, mentally and emotionally, handle it. I would make good choices.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Judith writes about writing... again
On Friday, I had a break in the SUB, and so I sat down with my notebook and began to write for my Nonfiction Writing final portfolio. I did not really know what I was going to write.
All I knew, in fact, was that at that moment, I really wanted to go to the beach.
I still do.
It became this story - which is getting longer every time I visit it - of my love for the sea. It became the tale of how I have never been landlocked, of how both of my grandfather's appreciated the coast, of how I am terrified of fish yet think the harsh rhythm-less timpani of waves is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
I have not been writing as much as I ought to have been in recent years. I used to sit down and write nearly every day, every time I felt like it. Then high school happened - and since then, I have had to make a conscious effort to get the words out of me, where it used to come so naturally to me. Even doing National Novel Writing Month in November was still an effort and a struggle. So, I appreciate moments like Friday, and this afternoon, and last night at one in the morning as I was convincing myself to go to bed, when a story will just not leave me alone, and where I cannot, as hard as I try, push it away.
Moments like those make me wonder if maybe I am a writer, after all.
All I knew, in fact, was that at that moment, I really wanted to go to the beach.
I still do.
It became this story - which is getting longer every time I visit it - of my love for the sea. It became the tale of how I have never been landlocked, of how both of my grandfather's appreciated the coast, of how I am terrified of fish yet think the harsh rhythm-less timpani of waves is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
I have not been writing as much as I ought to have been in recent years. I used to sit down and write nearly every day, every time I felt like it. Then high school happened - and since then, I have had to make a conscious effort to get the words out of me, where it used to come so naturally to me. Even doing National Novel Writing Month in November was still an effort and a struggle. So, I appreciate moments like Friday, and this afternoon, and last night at one in the morning as I was convincing myself to go to bed, when a story will just not leave me alone, and where I cannot, as hard as I try, push it away.
Moments like those make me wonder if maybe I am a writer, after all.
Friday, November 26, 2010
I should probably be doing homework or writing or something but...
Bet you've seen this one before:
Have you read more than 6 of these books? The BBC believes most people will have read only 6 of the 100 books listed here.
Instructions: Bold those books you've read in their entirety. Italicize the ones you started but did not completely finish.
1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings (3) - JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series (7) - JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials (3) - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 We lost 23 apparently
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia (7) - CS Lewis
34 Emma -Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - A.A. Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Inferno - Dante
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - E.B. White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
99 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
100 Frankenstein - Mary Shelly
Total: 43 read
I should note that many I haven't read I do actually own, and intend to read. Perhaps I'll make this my New Year's resolution: to read all of these (with the exception of finishing the complete works of Shakespeare - it seems a bit unrealistic.)
Have you read more than 6 of these books? The BBC believes most people will have read only 6 of the 100 books listed here.
Instructions: Bold those books you've read in their entirety. Italicize the ones you started but did not completely finish.
1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings (3) - JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series (7) - JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials (3) - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 We lost 23 apparently
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia (7) - CS Lewis
34 Emma -Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - A.A. Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Inferno - Dante
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - E.B. White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
99 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
100 Frankenstein - Mary Shelly
Total: 43 read
I should note that many I haven't read I do actually own, and intend to read. Perhaps I'll make this my New Year's resolution: to read all of these (with the exception of finishing the complete works of Shakespeare - it seems a bit unrealistic.)
Thursday, November 25, 2010
A Thanksgiving Thought
I love my Mum. This whole month, whenever I'm wandering around the house looking lost or lazy, the first words out of her mouth are not "Don't you have homework to do?" but "Don't you have some NaNoWriMo to do?"
My parents have supported me from day one on the whole wanting to write thing. I've always known that I would be studying English when I got to college, though my goals are less to be an author and more to have a career doing the things I love - which has always been my parents philosophy. Bekah wants to be a music major? Fine. She had better practice - she had better really want it - and she had better understand what that will mean in terms of future lifestyle, but we'll support her. You want to be an author? We can see that you love to read and write (from the moment you could talk you were telling stories!) and so long as I continued to write and be enthusiastic about words my parents never said I was being silly. When Bekah changed her major, they supported her - cautioned her against making rash decisions - but encouraged her to make sure that, whatever she was doing, she was doing what she loved. And you can tell; she loves what she's doing. I'm sure whatever Philip chooses to study, my parents will be right behind him, as long as they know his heart and motivations are in the right place.
So, when I first did National Novel Writing Month back in 2008, Mum did not say much, except "Don't stress yourself out" (I was really sick then), and "It's okay to give up if you can't manage." But if she found me watching Scrubs when I was alert and coherent enough to be writing? "Don't you have your novel to work on?" Same with the next year. And this year, even though I'm actually in school now and have other commitments that are supposed to come first.
Speaking of those commitments that are supposed to come first, I've yet to do any of my homework for this Thanksgiving break. But I've written nearly 8,000 words in the past two days - at the encouragement of my Mum.
So, all this to say, I'm thankful for the way my parents raised me. I'm not perfect, and I'm sure they're not either - but they allow me to do what I love, and more than just allow, they support and encourage me in it.
My parents have supported me from day one on the whole wanting to write thing. I've always known that I would be studying English when I got to college, though my goals are less to be an author and more to have a career doing the things I love - which has always been my parents philosophy. Bekah wants to be a music major? Fine. She had better practice - she had better really want it - and she had better understand what that will mean in terms of future lifestyle, but we'll support her. You want to be an author? We can see that you love to read and write (from the moment you could talk you were telling stories!) and so long as I continued to write and be enthusiastic about words my parents never said I was being silly. When Bekah changed her major, they supported her - cautioned her against making rash decisions - but encouraged her to make sure that, whatever she was doing, she was doing what she loved. And you can tell; she loves what she's doing. I'm sure whatever Philip chooses to study, my parents will be right behind him, as long as they know his heart and motivations are in the right place.
So, when I first did National Novel Writing Month back in 2008, Mum did not say much, except "Don't stress yourself out" (I was really sick then), and "It's okay to give up if you can't manage." But if she found me watching Scrubs when I was alert and coherent enough to be writing? "Don't you have your novel to work on?" Same with the next year. And this year, even though I'm actually in school now and have other commitments that are supposed to come first.
Speaking of those commitments that are supposed to come first, I've yet to do any of my homework for this Thanksgiving break. But I've written nearly 8,000 words in the past two days - at the encouragement of my Mum.
So, all this to say, I'm thankful for the way my parents raised me. I'm not perfect, and I'm sure they're not either - but they allow me to do what I love, and more than just allow, they support and encourage me in it.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Good things
I've been incredibly tired recently. Really, terribly, incredibly tired.
But good things have been happening.
Like just absolutely loving the Herman Melville piece we're reading in American Lit. It just makes my brain tingle, and reminds me why I'm an English major, instead of something practical.
And like being some 10,000 words behind on my novel for National Novel Writing Month, but still feeling really good about the story, and when I am awake enough to sit down and write, I'm hardly able to stop myself. That feels really good.
And my room's almost done! I got my chair today, and I've got the pinboard up, and it looks like a real room now, and I've only got a few things left to do.
I have chewy cars from Ikea. Seriously good candy. Seriously good.
I watched Babe this afternoon. For the first time in years - probably since we've moved to America. I thoroughly believe that my childhood was the golden era of kids movies. That thing is incredible.
Even though Max is probably dying and it's been six months and Grandma still isn't out of the hospital and even though I hurt everywhere and this sinus infection won't go away, there are worship songs on my iPod that can't stop making me smile and sing really loudly (and off key) in my car.
So, good things are happening. Even when it's tipping with rain outside or my heart, it seems like there's always something good happening.
But good things have been happening.
Like just absolutely loving the Herman Melville piece we're reading in American Lit. It just makes my brain tingle, and reminds me why I'm an English major, instead of something practical.
And like being some 10,000 words behind on my novel for National Novel Writing Month, but still feeling really good about the story, and when I am awake enough to sit down and write, I'm hardly able to stop myself. That feels really good.
And my room's almost done! I got my chair today, and I've got the pinboard up, and it looks like a real room now, and I've only got a few things left to do.
I have chewy cars from Ikea. Seriously good candy. Seriously good.
I watched Babe this afternoon. For the first time in years - probably since we've moved to America. I thoroughly believe that my childhood was the golden era of kids movies. That thing is incredible.
Even though Max is probably dying and it's been six months and Grandma still isn't out of the hospital and even though I hurt everywhere and this sinus infection won't go away, there are worship songs on my iPod that can't stop making me smile and sing really loudly (and off key) in my car.
So, good things are happening. Even when it's tipping with rain outside or my heart, it seems like there's always something good happening.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Dilemma
So, I'm sick.
Guess what? It's a sinus infection. My, why, that sounds similar - doesn't it? Well, yes, yes it does. It's what I had a month ago. And two weeks ago. It's the excuse I used when I cancelled on you last weekend.
I was operating under the mistaken belief that my immune system was improving. I am now not operating at all.
Here's the dilemma: I am a sniffling, hacking, flem-y, snotty mess, who just happens to be required to attend the school play for her beginning acting class. I could have gone last week - but I was a bit sick, and that's a bit rude. So, now I have to go this week - but as a sniffling, hacking, flem-y, snotty mess, I will be that awful person in the back being disruptive the whole show because she's sick.
I don't know if my grade is good enough to just not go. And I doubt that if I email my professor over the weekend, he will respond. Which leaves me in the lurch, because Sunday is the last performance of the show.
Mum has councilled me from overseas with advice to take cough syrup and mucinex just an hour before the show starts, and to have plenty of water and cough drops on hand (actually, she suggested a hot chocolate, but we aren't allowed food or drinks in the theatre...)... I still see this going down badly.
So, even though the people whom I am going to annoy this evening are unlikely to read this blog, I want to take this moment to apologize in advance for ruining your evening. You know how it goes; my grade depends on it.
Guess what? It's a sinus infection. My, why, that sounds similar - doesn't it? Well, yes, yes it does. It's what I had a month ago. And two weeks ago. It's the excuse I used when I cancelled on you last weekend.
I was operating under the mistaken belief that my immune system was improving. I am now not operating at all.
Here's the dilemma: I am a sniffling, hacking, flem-y, snotty mess, who just happens to be required to attend the school play for her beginning acting class. I could have gone last week - but I was a bit sick, and that's a bit rude. So, now I have to go this week - but as a sniffling, hacking, flem-y, snotty mess, I will be that awful person in the back being disruptive the whole show because she's sick.
I don't know if my grade is good enough to just not go. And I doubt that if I email my professor over the weekend, he will respond. Which leaves me in the lurch, because Sunday is the last performance of the show.
Mum has councilled me from overseas with advice to take cough syrup and mucinex just an hour before the show starts, and to have plenty of water and cough drops on hand (actually, she suggested a hot chocolate, but we aren't allowed food or drinks in the theatre...)... I still see this going down badly.
So, even though the people whom I am going to annoy this evening are unlikely to read this blog, I want to take this moment to apologize in advance for ruining your evening. You know how it goes; my grade depends on it.
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